


In Good Hands

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 12:48:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10831593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: She tries very hard not to smile at the two of them, Aomine pinching Wakamatsu’s hip through his shirt and Wakamatsu huffing, pretending to shove him away but pushing a lot more weakly than he’d need to in order to have any effect.





	In Good Hands

**Author's Note:**

> happy 5/6!

It’s hard to see the change in their relationship right away; it’s hard to see because there isn’t one. Aomine and Wakamatsu are still every bit as short with each other as always, and Aomine still provokes him needlessly in practice, which, well, Momoi hadn’t particularly expected to change. They still flirt awkwardly, Aomine by making lewd remarks that set Wakamatsu off all over again and Wakamatsu by attempting to compliment Aomine and Aomine staring at him as if he’d suddenly announced that he’d be switching his position to guard. They’re still physical with each other when the situation doesn’t strictly call for it, Aomine draping himself all over Wakamatsu and Wakamatsu giving Aomine a particularly long chest bump—it’s not as if Momoi had expected this all to change, that suddenly just because they’re officially dating they’d be holding hands and kissing and giggling like the stars of a shoujo manga. She knows Aomine better than that.

Still, though, something’s happening; Momoi’s sure of that much. Maybe it’ll take a while to kick in, that instead of dancing around the issue and pretending not to see it and imagining particular scenarios, they can do whatever they want with each other (outside of bicker and flirt and play ball), and somewhere that will file down the edges of their relationship, in basketball and elsewhere. But she can wait.

It's a gradual thing; if Momoi wasn’t looking for it she might not notice, even giving her powers of perception the credit they deserve (and, well, it’s not having a tangible effect on Touou’s game either way, so there’s no reason outside of her own vested interest in Aomine’s personal life for her to notice it in the first place). The tension between them hasn’t lessened at all; even when Aomine shows up wearing Wakamatsu’s spare practice clothes and Wakamatsu keeps tugging on his shirt to hide the hickey on his neck there’s still a physical lack of resolution held up in the air between them, like a bridge over a gorge. But they look at each other sometimes, almost like the quick and obvious glances they’d thrown like desperate shots from beyond half-court. But their faces are a bit softer, and they don’t seem to care if the other looks back and they let the gaze hold for longer, Wakamatsu getting a proper look at Aomine’s shot and paying less attention to his lack of form and more on his wingspan or Aomine checking out Wakamatsu instructing the first-years on a particular set of drills, face following the motions of his hands. And then, as always, they start to yell at each other again.

It’s when Momoi is running through plays with Wakamatsu, Wakamatsu wiping sweat off his face and neck with a towel, and Aomine meanders over fake-casually to eavesdrop. He drops his head onto Wakamatsu’s shoulder, almost getting a face full of towel. Wakamatsu’s used to it by now, but he still half-jumps and swats at Aomine.

“If you’re not going to help, go do drills.”

“Don’t want to,” says Aomine.

“Oi,” says Wakamatsu, shoving at him a little harder.

Aomine moves back, but then comes around to lean his body against Wakamatsu’s. Wakamatsu doesn’t do anything.

“So then we shoot?” he says, his ears turning just a little pink.

“Then we pass,” says Momoi.

Aomine yawns.

“Stop interrupting,” says Wakamatsu.

“You stop,” says Aomine.

“Then we pass,” says Wakamatsu, turning back to Momoi.

She tries very hard not to smile at the two of them, Aomine pinching Wakamatsu’s hip through his shirt and Wakamatsu huffing, pretending to shove him away but pushing a lot more weakly than he’d need to in order to have any effect. He manages to pay attention to the plays the rest of the way, some half-unconscious part of his mind still engaged with touching Aomine, the remains of his resistance falling away like shed snakeskin.

There’s less actual bite and more of a fond exasperation creeping into Wakamatsu’s voice when he scolds Aomine, more yelling at him to engage him than out of a habitual suspicion that whatever’s wrong is Aomine’s fault (though that is sometimes true). Sometimes, it crosses back over to pure annoyance; those times it’s easier for Aomine to back off a little bit until he’s annoying Wakamatsu the way he likes, butting in on strategy and whining at him that practice is too boring (to which Wakamatsu responds that it’s not supposed to be fun and if he’s got enough energy to sulk he’s got enough to run more laps). Coach, for his part, sits back on the bench, amused by the point and counterpoint between his captain and ace, and passes on more of the actual work to Momoi (which, really, she doesn’t mind—she does it better, after all).

It’s not to say this is the limit to how soft they get, even in front of others. Momoi’s making her way out of the bus, back from a road trip, when she sees them still asleep, awkwardly-positioned but somehow holding each other’s bodies up. Aomine’s hand is on Wakamatsu’s thigh; Wakamatsu’s arm is draped around Aomine’s shoulder. She almost hesitates to wake them up, and finally shakes Wakamatsu’s shoulder just enough to get him to blink and pitch half-forward. The jostling doesn’t wake Aomine (he’s still as sound a sleeper as ever).

“We’re back,” Momoi says. “See if you can get him awake or at least off the bus.”

“Oh,” says Wakamatsu, rubbing his neck.

He looks at Aomine, head slipped down to lean against his shoulder, hair messed up and sticking out everywhere, and he smiles, and it feels like Momoi’s not there at all—not that she’s intruding, or that Wakamatsu wants her gone, but that whether she’s there or not is completely irrelevant. She turns and walks out of the bus. They’ll follow, eventually; the bus driver’s standing outside smoking a cigarette and she seems in no hurry. The rest of the team is dispersing, and Momoi follows the path headed in the direction of her train. Aomine’s in good hands.


End file.
